The Girl from the Bus
by evening spirit
Summary: A chamber music AU, Ward centric. Something happened to Grant Ward fifteen years ago. Something that left him damaged. Music helped him survive and it still does, but is surviving enough? Grant wants to live, but he isn't sure he remembers how. He doesn't know if he has what it takes to truly be alive. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. I borrowed them and I broke them. Can't promise to return them fixed.

**Summary: **Something happened to Grant Ward fifteen years ago. Something that left him damaged. Music helped him survive and it still does but is surviving enough? Grant wants to live, but he isn't sure he remembers how. He doesn't know if he has what it takes to truly be alive. A chamber music AU, Ward centric.

**A/N: **I wrote this story, because I really, very much want the team to give Grant Ward the support he needs. Making it happen in an AU setting seemed like the best way to go at the moment.

This is a BigBang story and it's accompanied by art made by MarieInColour (of course, this being ff net, I can't link to said art; it is linked with the story posted on Archive Of Our Own, should you be interested). I was very happy to work with her (go see her other drawings, seriously!) and was really stunned when I saw what she made for this story. I think her picture captures the mood, the emotions and the atmosphere of the story extremely well.

It was a difficult story to write - both emotionally and in terms of technical side of writing and I wouldn't have done it without "a little help" from some wonderful people. :) I want to thank the SkyeWard gang: CaptainSummerDay (for help with the plot), Vesperass-Anuna (for help with the music), Afgani, Nathyfaith, Few-Times, Ldjkitten and Serenitysea (for handholding). There are no romantic pairings in this story - it is a friendship-fic (with emphasis on mayward, maybe pre-relationship biospecialist and philinda, and some skyeward, tripward and fitzward potential).

I hope you all enjoy the story. It may have been difficult to write but it was incredibly satisfying at the same time. Please, let me know if you liked.

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><p><strong>The Girl from the Bus<br>****Chapter One**

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><p>Instead of quotes, chapters in this story are accompanied by music. The piece for this chapter is <em>Franz Schubert – String Trio, Movement in B flat major D.471<em> (let's try it like this: youtube com (slash) watch?v=thBEfAU4JdQ ). If you want, you may try opening it. :)

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><p>Grant Ward was pleased with his life. It was ordinary and quiet, every day looked like the other: he would get up in the morning, eat breakfast, take his violin and go to the Community Center for a group rehearsal, then he would eat dinner, play some more and return home. On Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons the entire Community Orchestra would gather for two-hour sessions and on Saturdays they usually played concerts. In the evening at home he would read, listen to the music, sometimes watch tv or browse internet. Then, finally, he would fall asleep and slumber, usually undisturbed, for about three hours. He would wake up at four, invariably. Sometimes he'd come around quietly, other times in cold sweat or, very rarely, screaming. The sound of his own voice would always surprise him. He would get up then, drink a glass of water and, depending on the level of anxiety, he would return to sleep or he would sit in an armchair and stare out the window, waiting for the morning to come. Then he would eat breakfast, take his violin and go to the Community Center for a rehearsal.<p>

It was a good life. Grant didn't need to change anything.

When one Monday morning he found that letter in his mailbox, opened it and read it – he wanted to simply throw it away.

_Dear Mr Ward_, the letter said in small, equal letters, with tall upper elongates and long lower ones.

_You were recommended by a friend of mine to consider you for my project. At this time I may only disclose that this project involves playing a piece of classical chamber composition. Should you be interested, please contact me at the telephone number given below, by September 16th. If you meet my expectations, I will explain the exact nature of this project. Please, forgive this secrecy, but it is meant as a surprise gift to my dear friend._

It was signed, _sincerely, Melinda May_.

Grant stared at the letter for a few heart beats then changed his mind, folded it, put it back into the envelope and then into the pocket, next to his writing pad. He couldn't simply throw into the garbage something that was handwritten, in such an elegant manner, specifically for him. He could appreciate the quality of someone's handwriting.

In the store downstairs he bought a bagel and apple juice and the salesgirl knew not to ask him how he was today. She simply smiled when he paid and he nodded and smiled back.

The Community Center was two bus stops away from where he lived but Grant didn't like public transportation. If he had time, and he usually did, and if it wasn't raining or snowing, he walked the distance. He would get to his workplace in time, not too early and never late. He'd leave his bagel and juice in his locker, he'd take the sheets and he would proceed to one of the small practice chambers behind the stage. In the mornings only about fifteen people practiced. The Hubbard Community Orchestra never employed a complete ensemble but in the recent years the number of full-time instrumentalists dropped even lower. Most members of the orchestra worked elsewhere – they were teachers, administrators, two businessmen, freelancers – and only considered their membership in the Orchestra a prestigious hobby. Out of the violin section only Grant, first fiddle Maria Hill and two others were usually present for those morning sessions.

Maria often said that Grant should play first violin, but she knew as well as he did, that this position required more than hitting perfect notes. First violin was supposed to lead the whole orchestra and she was much, much better suited to do that than he was – and not only because she knew what made people tick.

Morning sessions were the only time they might practice something new and decide if there was any point presenting it to their conductor. Maestro Nicholas Fury was demanding and he had an ear even Boston Philharmonic musicians might envy but he was extremely short tempered. He would scream, bite their heads off if he could, for one little slip. The glare of his one good eye – he had never said how he lost the other one – scared the shit out of most members of the Orchestra. Despite the seemingly ambitious attitude Fury appeared jaded and it took significant effort to convince him to expand their stocks of symphonies and concertos. As a result the repertoire of Hubbard Community Orchestra was rather scanty and first-nights happened not more than three or four times a year. The only person, who could ever placate Fury enough to talk about working with a new piece, was Maria Hill.

For the past couple of weeks the four violinists had dabbled with some well known Haydn and Beethoven concertos as well as contemporary film and tv scores of Bear McCreary and Kerry Muzzey. Grant expected Maria to make up her mind soon, so the sight of her during lunch break, even if somewhat annoying, didn't surprise him. She probably wanted to get final input from him before attacking Fury.

Frankly, Grant wasn't in the mood to talk. The last couple of nights had been on the restless side of his personal scale from bad to worst and he had a headache. He deliberately chose this spot in the patio, a corner obscured by a large yucca, to have his bagel and apple juice in solitude. Of course he would discuss their repertoire if there was no other choice, but he wasn't happy about it. He rubbed his forehead and sighed, listening to Maria's footsteps on the gravel path.

"What's up?" his colleague greeted him in a cheerful voice and, in spite of himself, Grant looked up with a furrowed brow. She hadn't asked him any such question for years, since they'd first met actually; she knew not to. Now she stood before him, shifting back and forth awkwardly.

Grant shrugged in response.

"What are you having?" Maria asked then, as if he wasn't having the same thing. Every. Freaking. Day.

Now, chit-chat was not something Grant would have expected on a day like this. Maria was usually good at reading people and most times she would correctly guess if he needed company, or if he'd rather not be bothered, because his anxieties flared. If this conversation was not about music, then Maria must have mistaken his avoidance of contact for feeling abandoned. She was wrong but that didn't warrant Grant taking out his writing paraphernalia and explaining this to her. Maybe she would get the hint from another shrug.

She didn't. Maria sat next to him, pulled out her own sandwich and added the weirdest question of them all. "Anything interesting happened lately?"

Grant let his hands fall to his sides in exasperation. Did she actually expect an answer?

"I heard some rumors. Thought, maybe you heard them too."

Grant sighed and bit a piece of his bagel.

"A name Melinda May, means something to you?"

He had totally forgotten about the letter he found in his mail this morning. Despite his resolve to not let Maria Hill get to him, Grant turned to her, eyebrows drawn together in a nonmanual marker for "what?"

She understood his facial language well enough after all those years.

"So you've heard about Melinda?" Her face lit up. "Did you get the letter? What do you think?"

Yes, he got the letter. Bewildered, Grant reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. Handed it to Maria. She opened it and skimmed it with her eyes, but he didn't think she really read it.

"And?" She patted the paper with her index finger. "What are you gonna do?"

Grant wiped his face and sighed.

"Oh, c'mon. Aren't you gonna answer?" He shook his head. "Aren't you curious?"

Grant turned to her, pointing a finger, eyebrows high. Maria understood most of basic signs too.

"What? Me?" She sounded surprised. "I have enough on my plate making sure this trainwreck of an Orchestra doesn't derail. Besides I didn't get an invitation. It's really a selected group of people that Melinda requested."

Grant finally succumbed. He put his bagel and juice on the bench next to him and pulled out his digital writing pad and pen.

_You know this, how?_ He scribbled balancing the pad on his knee.

"I know things." Maria shrugged. "I want to know what you're gonna do. This is worth trying. I know you may not be overly trusting in a letter from some stranger. But. Haven't you really heard about Melinda May? She's more known from contemporary recitals but still, do you live under a rock? A guess you do. Anyway. If you don't trust this letter, then trust me. You want to try it."

Grant gave it a minute shake of his head and inhaled deep.

_Why do you care?_ He wrote.

"Because you're wasting your talent here, Ward. You can do so much more than play second chair in a Community Orchestra in Hubbard, Massachusetts. Give yourself a chance. What's the worst that can happen? She will not want you, is what. If it pans out, on the other hand, well, it might turn your monotonous life around. Be a change for the better."

_I don't like change_, he would have interrupted, if he said those words aloud. Maria stopped speaking and took a moment to read anyway. She was considerate like this. Grant didn't even look at her.

Except when he heard her sigh. Then he met her gaze and shivered at how conflicted she was. She stood up, barely nibbled sandwich in hand, walked a few paces away and returned to stand in front of him. Opened her mouth, closed them, sat down and put her hand on his leg. Something was wrong. This was not a friendly chit-chat after all and Grant felt his stomach twist.

"There's gonna be change whether you want it or not," Maria said emphatically. "Fury told me we didn't get funds for the next season, so a month from now – all full-time instrumentalists are to be let go. Of course we may all still play, part time, like the rest of the Orchestra, but we will all need to find real jobs. I already have something lined up, at Stark & Potts Junior High and I know that both Victoria and Jasper are in the talks. It was you I was most worried about," she waved her hand over the letter. "That's why I thought of this."

She'd actually arranged it, Grant should have known. He was about to crush the paper, throw it at her, stand up and stalk away but she kept holding her hand on his thigh and he couldn't move.

"You should take it," she kept talking. "You have to, Ward. Look, I don't know what happened to you that made you..." she paused, checked herself. "It must have been bad. Very bad." If she only knew. "But the gist of it is – you survived. You are alive. But. You are _not living_. This, what you do, this is not life, this is... barely existing. And if you don't take this chance, Grant..." she's never called him by his first name before. This made the whole situation more terrifying than anything she said so far. "With what's happening with the Orchestra... you might as well be dead."

Grant glared at her for a long moment. He had no idea how much she knew about his situation, but she was scarily right. He qualified for a pension due to his mental issues. If he lost this job, one he got through a favor someone owed his parents, he didn't believe he'd be able to find another one on his own. He most likely wouldn't. He could then apply for government money but that would mean finally, after all those years – giving up.

He wanted to punch Maria Hill for pointing it all out so blatantly. He wanted to throw this letter in her face and say he didn't want, didn't need her mercy, but the truth was – he did. Because that other fate was way worse.

It would be fate worse than death. And he really didn't want to die.

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><p>If the music didn't stop playing, just let it play. Close your eyes and relax. :)<p>

t.b.c.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Girl from the Bus  
><strong>**Chapter Two**

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><p>The music piece accompanying this chapter is <em>Kerry Muzzey - Architect of the Mind <em>(youtube com (slash) watch?v=R-cp5Jka9UE )

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><p>Grant was more nervous about meeting this famous Melinda May than he anticipated. He had made a mistake last night and typed her name into a browser. What he saw was a petite woman of Chinese origin, who wielded a double bass like it was a spear. In a musical sense; she wasn't doing spear dance with it. Still, her playing style was impressive and the way she managed to draw melody from a rhythmic instrument was something else entirely. On top of that she was a women rights activist, a very vocal and respected one at that.<p>

At least Grant slept like a baby, after a double dose of sleeping pills. Better safe than sorry and he needed to be rested for such a life-altering event, despite Maria suddenly backtracking and assuring him that it was all not such a big deal. He didn't even remember waking up at night but the glass on the kitchen counter was proof enough that he hadn't neglected his four a.m. routine.

Of course, Grant blackmailed Maria to drive him to Melinda May's house, where the mysterious musician held her auditions.

_If you make me take the bus, I'm gonna have a panic attack and I'm not gonna go_, he'd written.

"Fine," Maria had snarled in response, "but I'm not getting in with you. We park, a block away, and you're on your own."

Grant only furrowed his eyebrows in a 'why?' expression but Maria completely ignored him.

The house Maria directed him to, was located at the end of the street, on a hill. Its modern architecture, surrounded by lush green trees, gave off the impression of modest luxury. The side of the building that faced the street was off-white and windowless but as Grant approached the three steps before the entrance, the view to the garden-side of the building opened and he saw tall windows and part of the interior through them. At a black grand piano sat a black haired woman dressed in white long dress. He saw her hands move lightly over the keys and heard a faint melody. It was sweet and somehow angry, sad and at the same time strangely defiant. It brought to mind wind and open fields and bright blue skies. Grant took a moment to listen, before ringing the bell.

It was almost four p.m. and he didn't like to be late.

He counted his heartbeats, while he waited for the door to open. Eleven, twelve, thirteen. On the fourteen the lock clicked and then, there she was. Melinda May was two heads shorter than him, she didn't look more than thirty, but she carried herself like a mature woman well aware of her benefits and shortcomings and he knew from all the info he found on the internet that she was a... few years older. The white thing she was wearing, that he thought was a dress, turned out to be a light-gray blouse and sport pants.

"Hello?" she half greeted him, half asked and he nodded, handing her the note he had prepared beforehand.

_Hi_, it said, _I'm Grant Ward and we had an appointment at four p.m._  
><em>Oh, and I don't speak, think Maria forgot to mention that.<em>

"No, she didn't say anything." Melinda looked up at him, scrutinizing, as if she tried to assess how dangerous this mute man could be. Grant tried to look friendly and he apparently succeeded, because Melinda opened the door a crack wider and gestured for him to enter.

It sometimes amused him how people who learned about his muteness, initially resorted to gestures as well. It was a phase, of course. They quickly realized they didn't have enough waves and shrugs in their repertoire to express everything they wanted to convey.

Melinda walked to the room he saw from the outside. It was mostly empty, vast expanse of polished wooden floor and white walls with a few black-and-white photographs of the owner with her prime instrument. The actual double bass stood in the corner between the wall and the modern-style floor-to-ceiling window that took up two sides of the room. The window opened to the slanted meadow and a barrier made of trees, a few yards away. The black grand piano occupied the center of the room, with a note-stand and a chair next to it. The whole first floor of the house was open, the sterile white and red and black kitchen at the back and open staircase leading to the second floor clung to the outside, windowless wall.

Grant stopped next to the recliner that seemed to mark the boundary between the entrance area and the living- the music room. Melinda turned to him and spread her hands.

"So," she said. He could tell she was tense but she managed to hide her discomfort with skill that Grant found admirable. "Do you need anything to drink, a moment to get acquainted with this space maybe, or shall we go straight to playing some music?"

Frankly, Grant wanted to hear her play that piece she had been practicing when he'd arrived. It was too complicated a request though, so he placed his violin on the recliner, pulled the writing pad and pen and wrote,

_We may play. What did you have in mind?_

He handed the pad to her and she read it intently.

"I thought about some Debussy, Schubert, Mozart maybe?"

Piano and violin duets, apparently. He extended his hand for the pad and she gave it back, somewhat abashed. Took position next to him, to better see what he was writing.

_Debussy's Sonata?_ He asked and Melinda nodded.

"That and maybe something easier to warm up. Do you need the score?"

_I haven't played it in a while._ It took time to scribble full sentences like this, but Grant didn't want to take shortcuts on their first meeting. He added an explanatory: _I may need to refresh my memory._

Melinda nodded and walked away to the bookstand, hidden cleverly between the main room and the kitchen.

"How about we begin with Mozart, Sonata in G Major, and maybe..." She flipped some sheets, then turned to him. "Shubert, Sonata in A Major, Opus 162? Do you know those?" Grant nodded. "Would you rather play standing or seated?" She asked, and because she was too far now to see his scribbling, Grant instinctively made a sign for _chair_. He corrected himself immediately, by pointing at the piece of furniture. Melinda nodded curtly.

"Come on, then."

She didn't smile. Melinda May's face was expressionless like that of a statue, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. In the way she moved, though, Grant sensed strength, firm core deep within. People like this, with their no-nonsense attitude and confidence, made him feel secure, grounded. He liked that.

He flipped the pages, tried some more difficult passages from each piece for a few minutes, while Melinda waited, her hands on her lap. Finally he decided he was ready and they begun with the Mozart Sonata. It was mostly an exercise in technique and Grant knew he passed that test with flying colors. Shubert required a little more emotional approach but they only played a part of allegro and then the beginning of the scherzo when Melinda decided she wanted to try Debussy.

"Do you want to take a break? Something to drink maybe?" she asked and Grand cast a brief glance at his writing pad, left abandoned at the recliner. He wasn't thirsty enough to warrant the effort it would take to communicate his needs, so he simply shook his head.

Debussy's Sonata for violin and piano was one of the finest compositions ever written for those two instruments. It was also difficult, especially for the pianist and Melinda May wasn't spectacular on this instrument. Grant could hear her missing notes in more complex accords. However, toward the end of Intermede he begun to feel like her piano and his violin were actually having a conversation. The Finale started delicate and erupted in passionate argument of accords and tertias and ricochetes, only to suddenly become something else entirely.

For a heartbeat Grant was startled but recovered quickly. It was the piece she had played before he'd come in. The angry and defiant one but it passed from the Debussy's heart‑wrenching sadness seamlessly. Breath caught in Grant's throat when he realized Melinda May expected him to improvise.

And improvise he would. He listened to her notes carefully and found an opening to let his instrument speak. He first repeated her chords and melody but soon begun to add his own interpretation. He closed his eyes and let imagination show him those open spaces and freedom and elation he imagined earlier. He felt like flying. Among the clouds, through the vast expanse of blue, warmed by the sun and soaked in the rain and occasionally struck by lightning that rolled and rolled and rolled away on the tumultuous low notes of the thunder.

When they finished, for a moment he couldn't breathe. He needed to blink the tears from his eyes, before he would look up and meet Melinda May's gaze.

He saw her smile. The tiniest lift of the corners of her lips but there it was. Her eyes sparkled too.

Grant couldn't hold himself back. He laid away his violin and strode for the writing pad.

_What's this piece?_ he wrote. _Title?_

"Sky," Melinda said quietly and Grant, for the second time this day, couldn't catch his breath. He knew it! He felt it, he imagined it. His eyes stung and his chest ached but it was a good ache, like being pierced with a sun ray.

Melinda ran her finger on the edge of the piano as if removing invisible dust.

"I have this friend," she begun and Grant had to lean close to catch those words. "He's a writer. A famous writer, he has a few successful novels to his name, some awards. But the thing is, he hasn't published anything in five years." She glanced up, wary, guarded. "Five years ago..." hesitated, "well, something bad happened to him five years ago. And he just couldn't find his footing again, you know." She fell silent.

She put her fingers on the keys and started playing the melody again. Just a simple one-note one-handed melody. Grant stayed as silent as ever, unmoving, hypnotized, waiting. And she spoke again, still as quiet. "Then, one day, last year, he came to me and asked me to play something for him, on a piano. I did and, as I was playing, he started telling me this story." Her left hand joined the right one in low, deep sounds. "He would come every day, for about a month, I would play and he would talk. At first I was playing from sheets, but as his story progressed, my music changed. I found that other people's melodies didn't fit the tale. Before I knew it, I started composing. I do that, I write music, but this one is different. And here's the catch." Melinda stopped playing.

She turned her whole body toward Grant, hands folded on her lap, face lit up. "It turned out that he was writing down those tales of his as I was writing the music. He wrote a new novel. And in three months from now – it's coming out. He doesn't know about my composition, but I thought it would be amazing, if I could play it at the reception his agent plans to hold on the day of the publication. I already spoke to Steve, the agent, and he's all for it. All I need is to find the people who would play it with me. See, it's mostly for piano and I'm not a pianist, I'm a double bass player."

I know what you can do with double bass, Grant thought but he didn't want to interrupt her tale, so he didn't even reach for his writing pad.

Melinda continued. "Besides, since I am a double bass player, I can hear my instrument in the melody as well, and then, there's room for violin and viola, maybe a cello. Actually, what you did with the melody just now..." She looked up and her eyes glistened. She quickly turned her face away, ashamed but she needn't to. Melting a little was nothing to be ashamed of. "It's like you know it already. I regret I didn't record it, it was very... I'm sorry I'm usually not that teary." She wiped her face.

Grant lifted his hand, ready to touch her, to comfort her but hesitated and when she turned to look at him again, he withdrew it hastily. She didn't seem to notice.

"I wanted to have young people do this." She was calm and collected again and Grant wasn't sure if what she said was supposed to make him worry. Like, maybe she didn't want him, because he wasn't young enough? His heart sped up. "I have friends who could play it with me," she said, "but I wanted students, or people fresh out of the Conservatory. I thought you were younger, you know? When Maria told me about you." She shrugged. "I had this whole idea about finding talented young people, because that's who this novel is about, a girl who doesn't even realize how brilliant she is. But now that you're here, I want you." She gave him that hint of a smile again. A glimmer of hope in her shining eyes. "Will you do this with me? The pay isn't enormous and we have a tight schedule and I don't have anybody else lined up yet, Phil really surprised me with this announcement two weeks ago, but I need..." she stopped.

Grant wrote big, bold, _I want to do this_, and put it up in front of her face.

Her eyes jumped from the writing to his face a few times until she sighed, nodded and uttered, "Great."

Grant nodded with a smile.

"You're brilliant too, by the way," she added, standing up and gathering music sheets. "Do you know that? What are you doing here, playing in a damn community orchestra? You should be out there, in Boston or New York." She didn't walk away, didn't turn away, instead she waited for his response.

Grant shrugged and sighed. Then he used a speak sign with a headshake, hoping she would understand.

She did. At least the part where he said he didn't talk.

"I'm sure there are ways to go around that. Disability shouldn't deprive you of chances to pursue your dreams, your career."

She had no way of fully comprehending the complexity of his situation. Not without him disclosing more about himself. He took the writing pad and begun to scribble.

_There's more to it. I've anxiety issues. Don't deal with stress well. Need stability and quiet. Now? I've taken a 2 dose of my happy pill just to come here. I'm a mess._

She moved to look over his arm while he wrote. He couldn't see whether she wanted to ask "why?" or "what happened?" In the end she didn't; instead she just gave his arm a light squeeze and sighed.

He wrote, _You still want me for this?_

"Of course!" Now she walked away, as if refusing him a chance to say he couldn't be a part of her plans. "After today, I can't imagine this project without you."

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><p>t.b.c.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**The Girl from the Bus  
><strong>**Chapter Three**

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><p>The music piece accompanying this chapter is <em>Edvard Grieg<em> – _String Quartet in G minor, 1st. Movement, Part 1_ (youtube com (slash) watch?v=qlS0QgOHiqM )

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><p>They auditioned the next candidates together. Grant requested a leave of absence from the morning rehearsals with the Orchestra and, even though he was nervous before talking to Maestro Fury, it turned out Fury was more disappointed than angry and then, somehow, relieved.<p>

"Looking for a new job, are you?" he sighed. "Good. Go. Show up once a week, Fridays, will you? And Saturday concerts." And that was all. He had all the time in a week to practice with Melinda and to aid her in judging the contestants.

Melinda would do the same mind-trick before every appointment as she had done when he had come – she would play 'Sky' as each person approached. People would stop outside, at least for a few moments, to listen. Only one of them didn't wait but knocked immediately as she came to the door and Melinda didn't even want to listen to her play. She told Grant that, in fact, he had been one of those who listened for a very short time too and she'd almost given him the same treatment.

"And I know what you're gonna say, that perhaps I should have listened to her too," she added immediately. "It was her general attitude, though. It's like she's not playing because she loves music, but because she wants to become famous. Did you notice the questions she asked? Where are we going to play? For whom? Is there going to be a recording?"

The person before her couldn't find the right tone, the one earlier had been too confident and the first on this day had been guilty of committing one discordance in Mozart. It had been three days and they hadn't found one passable candidate.

_You have too high standards. No one's Melinda May._ Grant wrote and handed her the pad.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Oh, dear. He hated when that happened. He got too comfortable with her and started using mental shortcuts and now he was going to have to explain himself. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. It was Thursday afternoon and he was tired. Tomorrow he had a rehearsal with the Orchestra and then the concert on Saturday and he wasn't looking forward to any

He wasn't sure he was looking forward to the next week with Melinda either.

At first, he'd found working with her unexpectedly refreshing. He had to learn new things. Beside her own composition she planned to play a few more pieces at the reception, and she used him as her test subject. They tried Shubert's and Shuman's string and piano quarters, trios and duets, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Grieg, Rachmaninoff. It was difficult to choose not knowing what instruments would eventually play but at least they compiled the list from which they could later cross out. Playing all those pieces was something else on and off itself but beside it, Grant got to compose. Melinda claimed that 'Sky' wasn't a finished piece yet and it would keep changing until she found the right people to play it. Writing music was something Grant had never done before and never expected he would do, but Melinda insisted he was doing fine. And he loved it. Frankly, he could work on this composition all day and night; that was exactly what he was now doing in the evenings after returning home.

If this was what Maria meant by him changing his life, he was all for it. He was tempted to tell Fury that he was done with the Orchestra for good. Learning new stuff, evolving as an artist, making progress, that's what playing music was supposed to be all about. He wanted this.

The hard part was Melinda May's attitude. And the way this whole project was still up in the air. In order for the concept to come to fruition Melinda needed right people. And she wasn't going to get them if she would find flaws in each and every person who came through her door.

Grant had to get Melinda back on the right track, remind her what the goal was.

_You need to have a string quartet_, he explained his stance, _and a pianist and we need to start practicing and you only have a duet. You need to stop being so judgmental_.

"I want it to be perfect, or not at all," Melinda snarled, stood up and briskly walked to the kitchen.

Not at all. Well, that could still happen, too. And that was a possibility Grant didn't really want to dwell into at the moment.

They had one more audition lined up for today, a violinist and five others for Sunday, two pianists, a violinist again, a viola player and a cellist. Grant didn't feel he would be able to endure Melinda May's discontent for another week if those auditions fell through as well. The piece was difficult, unfinished and they had two and a half months till the performance and no musicians to play it with.

Melinda wasn't returning from the kitchen. She was probably angry that Grant pointed out her mistake and he couldn't make up his mind if he was wrong to speak his mind, or if he was in the right. Or maybe... Why did she even pick him, why wasn't she as hard in judging him? Maybe she regretted her decision now?

He couldn't let himself go into that territory, so he picked up his violin and started to play. Those late night sessions brought interesting ideas to the piece. He needed to hear how they sounded in the light of day.

"Too sad," Melinda said after listening for a few minutes. She stood leaning against the wall, brow furrowed and lips pursed. "This story is about hope, not about despair."

Maybe it would be easier if he'd read it, Grant thought, but didn't have a chance to say anything, because they were interrupted by urgent knocking. Wasn't it a little too early for their next appointment?

Melinda shrugged, went to open the door and she let in a small tornado.

"Hey!" a tall, very boisterous man with a blinding smile let himself in. "I'm sorry I'm barging in like this, but that was amazing!" He took Melinda's palm and leaned in to kiss the tips of her fingers in an old-fashioned way. Then he turned to Grant. "I have to know, what was it? What were you playing, man?" Extended his hand and Grant shook it, without even thinking. The man was friendliness personified. "My name is Antoine, Antoine Triplett and I play violin. I'm telling you, man, that was some fine tune you've got going on here. It sounds contemporary. Am I right?" He was talking loud and fast and even if Grant could respond, it would be difficult to cut in.

Melinda did instead. She closed the door and neared their guest.

"My name is Melinda May." She stopped in front of him, hands folded on her chest.

Recognition lit up his face, but instead of abashment, it brought out honest joy.

"Oh, you're the one who invited me here, right? I'm too early, I know and I would have waited but then I heard this..." He gestured toward Grant.

"That's all right." Melinda smiled. She actually smiled. "This is Grant Ward, he plays violin, as you already noticed. He can't speak, so don't throw questions at him like this." Antoine cast a brief, apologetic glance at Grant and turned to Melinda again, and Grant glanced from Melinda to Antoine and felt a strange knot twist in his stomach. Was his presence was no longer required?

And it was not that he couldn't talk, he just... didn't...

Melinda talked to Antoine and he talked back and Grant tried to focus on their voices, not on the hum of his own blood in his ears. "Grant auditioned earlier and I liked the way he played." Her voice seemed to come from bottomless depths but was getting clearer and clearer with each sentence. "I want to hear you play as well but first, I'd like to know a little bit more about you. What do you expect from this project? Why did you reply to the invitation? And if you could remind me, who recommended you?"

While she spoke, Melinda led Antoine to the recliner. He replied and soon they started a conversation full of quips and smart rhetoric. At one point Grant could swear he heard Melinda chuckle. He couldn't be certain, though, because he didn't look at them. He stood at the window and glared at the evenly trimmed grass, green and lush despite the heat, unusual for early autumn, and at the maples, lindens and beeches marking the border of the municipal park on the other side of the hill.

Antoine played well. He wasn't technically as skilled as Grant but his emotional range included brave and open and, Grant had to admit, much more cheerful. At the end of the day, having explained the details of her project to Antoine and having accepted his admiration and gushing and seventeen variations of his white-teethed smile, Melinda requested that both of them come on Sunday to listen to the next five auditions. Antoine was honored.

Grant woke up at four a.m. with a scream.

He couldn't remember the dream but he couldn't stop shivers until he took an extra dose of medication his doctor prescribed for special occasions. After that he couldn't even hear his own footsteps, much less any music. The fog barely dissipated when he got to the rehearsal at the Community Center. Next two nights weren't much better but at least the concert on Saturday was as uneventful as ever. On Sunday he was supposed to go to Melinda's again, to audition the contestants.

The first pianist who came on Sunday was uncomfortable, Melinda said, even though Antoine argued that he only needed to get to know them better.

"The pianist must be perfect," Melinda cut any discussion. "The pianist is the most important. And I would rather it was a woman."

She called off the violinist, because two violins were already too much. Or enough, she corrected herself immediately. "We need a viola or a cello, now."

The girl playing viola was close. She played well, had skill and sass and even though Melinda's non-expression was closer to displeasure than to admiration she showed Antoine, even she realized her options were getting slimmer. Besides, Antoine's friendliness was contagious like a plague.

"Look at her." He smiled at Melinda. "The babe is pretty. She plays well, she knows what she wants, and she looks nice. Love the flower dress, too." He took the girl's hand and led her to the recliner. Her name was Raina and that Antoine found suitable too. Rain fell from the sky, it all fit. "Not to mention that we really need another string instrument. That would make the group complete."

"We still need a piano," Melinda reminded.

"True, the piano, of course. But that doesn't change the fact that she plays very well."

Melinda sighed and nodded. "I will regret agreeing to have you in my team, Antoine," she warned but there was no real anger in her voice. She sounded amused and quite fond of him and Antoine's cheeky grin was a clear indication that he was well aware of that. "Okay then. Raina." Melinda turned to the girl in a flower dress. "I have this friend, he's a famous writer." She was about to tell her the same story she had told Grant and Antoine, except this time the name slipped in earlier, somehow.

"Phil?" Raina kept looking at Melinda with innocent doey eyes, her voice as sweet and polite as earlier. "Phil Coulson? The one who wrote 'Heart of Iron'?" Melinda nodded, pleasantly surprised that her friend was finally recognized. She turned to glance meaningfully at Grant then at Antoine – neither of them had any reaction to the name which was supposed to be famous. Raina obviously read award-winning novels. "I thought he was burnt out," Raina added and Melinda's face turned to stone.

She glared at the girl. "He did not," she seethed each word separately.

"He hasn't published anything in five years." Raina shrugged.

Melinda attempted to turn Raina into ice with her stare for a few heart beats and Grant thought the blunt violist should really start to get scared. Raina's eyes remained as doey as before though and the small smile dancing on her lips didn't indicate any discomfort.

"You need to leave," Melinda said finally.

Antoine took in a breath, apparently about to defend the girl but Grant grabbed his arm. Shook his head "no", when Antoine cast him a glance and the usually animated young man sat back with wry face.

Raina left and Melinda hid upstairs. With nothing better to do, Grant took his violin and tried a few notes. He glanced at Antoine.

"Oh, right, we did some changes to the allegro yesterday." Antoine jumped up and grabbed the sheets, stashed atop the piano. Obviously he forgot about the audition fiasco immediately. He shuffled the pages until he found the right ones. "See?"

Grant's heart fell. He couldn't shake off the disappointment as fast as Antoine, besides he had been upset even before. And now this. In the morning, in between the auditions, they'd practiced Shubert's Fantasy for violin and piano and Melinda hadn't mentioned anything about working on ther piece with Antoine during the last two days, while Grant had played a concert with the Orchestra. But they had worked on it. And it kind of stung.

It shouldn't have. He shouldn't feel jealous, Grant thought. It was not his composition, it was not his reception, it was not about his friend. Melinda hired him and it was just a job, just another job, like the one at the Community Center. There was no reason for him to get involved, invested emotionally. He forced a smile and played what was written. Antoine played too, made a comment, Grant nodded. They practiced like this for a while. The pressure in Grant's throat lessened but the emptiness in his stomach remained.

Melinda let them enjoy the melody for almost an hour. Then she reminded that the next candidate was coming, gathered all the sheets and stashed them neatly atop the piano again. She didn't play before this person came and maybe that was a mistake. While skilled when playing classics, this girl completely missed the emotional message of 'Sky', when Melinda asked her to play a fragment from sheets.

"She didn't even have the time to learn it," Antoine argued when the door closed behind her.

"Neither did you," Melinda cut him off. "And neither did Grant."

"Yeah, but we heard you play it. And it was always about interpretation, inspiration, not actual note-reading. You didn't even give her a chance."

"Alright, I'll give a chance to the next person. We have one last player and if he doesn't cut it, I guess we will just call the whole thing off." She paused and glared at the door with distaste. "His name is Fitzsimmons," she said as if the name alone meant this bidder stood no chance.

Antoine approached her, took her hand in his and said with enough conviction for the three of them. "He is gonna cut it. And then we will find the pianist, even if we're gonna have to go to the Boston Conservatory."

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><p>t.b.c.<p>

If you like the story, I would really appreciate a comment (or two). They help... you know. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**The Girl from the Bus  
><strong>**Chapter Four**

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><p>The music piece accompanying this chapter is <em>Fryderyk Chopin - Valse brillante No. 1 in A flat major, Op. 34<em> (youtube com (slash) watch?v=wV3oUQnZ30M )

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><p>Three minutes before the appointed time Melinda requested Antoine to accompany her. Grant sat on the couch and tried not to feel useless.<p>

Fitzsimmons didn't knock until Melinda and Antoine finished playing. Grant knew that he had come in already, because he saw someone trying to peek through the window. He could swear it was a girl though, not a guy.

And when Melinda went to open the door, indeed a girly voice welcomed her.

"That was so beautiful, Miss May," the person who spoke those words had a distinct British accent. "You are Miss May, aren't you? It is such a pleasure to meet you. It was a beautiful piece, wasn't it? Say something Fitz, don't just stand there."

"Yes it was, ma'am." A male voice replied. Ward stood up and faced the entrance but he couldn't see the guests, because Melinda still stood in the open door, sort of gaping. The male voice added after a brief awkward pause. "We didn't knock before, because we didn't want to interrupt."

"Interrupt, yes," the girl cut in seamlessly. "We were so enchanted. This melody reaches inside the heart and is so warm and friendly, almost like a person. I don't think I've ever heard it before. And I hope you don't mind our gushing."

"She tends to get emotional like this."

"Like you don't, Fitz. He had tears in his eyes, I swear. May we come in?"

"Oh!" Melinda jumped. "Of course. I'm sorry, but... Who are you?"

The twosome entered and Grant could finally see they were a pair of kids basically, probably still in the Conservatory and each of them carried a large cello case.

"Fitz," said the girl, pointing at her friend and smiling genuinely.

"Simmons," added the boy, pointing at the girl, with a lot more serious face. "We play cellos."

"I thought you were one person," Melinda blurted.

Antoine started to laugh.

"No, no, sorry, don't mind me," he choked out when they all turned to glare at him, Simmons offended, Fitz stunned and Melinda exasperated. "Sorry." He pulled himself together and added in a steadier tone, "We were expecting one person, a man, named Fitzsimmons." He shrugged and stifled another bout of laughter, in an attempt to treat the situation with due seriousness.

"That's all your fault Fitz," the girl sighed with barely contained anger, her eyes large and dark in a pale face.

"Like, how?" Fitz spread his arms, offended.

"Had I called, there would not be such misunderstanding. I told you I should have called."

"And what would it change? They would simply think Fitzsimmons was a girl, that's what would change!"

"No, it wouldn't! Because I would have explained everything properly, like you obviously didn't have time to do!"

"It wouldn't even cross your mind to explain anything! Why do you think it hadn't crossed mine? I'm not a total moron like you seem to think, thank you very much for your support and understanding."

By the fifth sentence they were both yelling and gesticulating and facing each other from barely a few inches apart, and acting like the rest of the world did not exist or was at least very irrelevant. Grant, to his surprise, felt more bemused with this exchange, than upset. Melinda watched them with risen eyebrows and was obviously looking for an opening to speak up. Didn't seem about to happen, as Fitz and Simmons were talking over each other; one didn't even finish the sentence when the other started.

"I know you!" Antoine finally shouted over their bickering.

Both of them fell silent and glared at him, indignant that he dared to interrupt them.

"I know them," Antoine repeated, looking at Melinda. "They're those child prodigies from England, everyone at the Boston Conservatory is crazy about."

"Excuse me." The boy glared at him with venom. "I am Scottish."

"And I am English. From Brighton." The girl extended her hand for Antoine to take. "My name is Jemma."

"What are you doing, Simmons?" Fitz whispered theatrically as Jemma and Antoine shook hands.

"He's Leo," she added with a sneer.

"It's a pleasure." Antoine looked deep into her eyes with all his undeniable gallantry and charm, then turned to Melinda, still holding Jemma's hand. "They are great! I've heard them play a few years ago, when they first came to Boston. You wouldn't believe. They're young but they have the range like the best of them. Why don't you play violins, guys?"

"We do. We can play any string instrument. We just prefer the lower sound," Leo Fitz grumped.

"I don't understand why people think that violin is better?" Jemma pursed her lips and burned Antoine with a stare. "You play violin, I presume?" Antoine nodded, abashed. "Of course."

"Miss May, meanwhile, is famous for playing bass." Leo backed his friend's case. "And I am certain she would say that her instrument is the best. What about you?" He looked at Grant.

Everyone turned to him and silence fell where there should have been a response. Antoine took a step back, exposing Grant for those newcomers to glare and Melinda inhaled sharply.

"Oh, this is Grant, Grant Ward," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't introduce you all properly."

"Yeah," Antoine cut in seamlessly. "He plays violin, actually and I'm sure he would have told you violin is the best instrument of all, but, unfortunately, he can't speak."

Grant closed his eyes, feeling anger bubble up inside him. He 'didn't' speak, not 'couldn't'. He could. He would, if... If he could. The anger bubbled and died out, replaced by resignation. It was a matter of semantics, really, and not important enough that he would correct Antoine. Besides, even if he wanted to, Jemma Simmons effectively prevented him from doing it.

"I'm so sorry," she said coming up to him with furrowed brow and added louder and with a very precise articulation. "You can hear though, can you not?"

Grant felt his eyebrows go all the way up to his hairline as he blinked at her a couple of times before he regained his composure enough to point at the instrument he left lying on the couch.

At exactly the same moment Leo spoke with righteous indignation, "Simmons, for crying out loud, they just said he plays violin. Of course the man can hear, don't be daft."

Such passionate demonstration of support from a complete stranger surprised Grant so much, he temporarily lost control of his facial expressions. He felt his lips spread into a wide smile and his body shake in silent laughter.

Jemma turned an intense shade of pink.

"Oh, of course. Silly me," she muttered, bowed her head, put a strand of hair behind her ear. She was so adorable, Grant couldn't help but feel sympathy for her discomfort.

He took her arm, gently and waited until she looked up, her eyes bright and shy. He waved his arms and shook his head in a _don't worry_ sign, even though he didn't think she'd understand and then fingerspelled _ok_.

"O... kay?" she mouthed and smiled, abashed, and he actually chuckled.

"Okay, then." Melinda interrupted awkward silence. "Since we have introductions out of the way, how about we listen to the two of you play. Have you prepared anything?"

With everyone focused on the audition, Grant took a step back and wondered what had just happened.

Because something had happened. Something had changed and he felt that nothing would ever be the same again. He had smiled, he had laughed, he had felt connected to another human being. As brief as the moment was, for him it was huge. It felt like the glass surrounding him – protecting him – cracked and he couldn't think about the way to fix it.

This whole job, playing with Melinda, it was supposed to be about music, about evolving as an artist and suddenly it became about something else entirely. It became about who was friendly and nice and who was joking and Grant watched Melinda and Antoine exchange witty comments and he understood why he'd felt so uneasy for the last couple of days. Why Antoine made him feel so uneasy. He didn't fit in and he never would.

He couldn't remember a time he had wanted to fit in.

But now he did.

He told himself that he didn't care about this composition, about the whole idea of playing at a reception for a friend, to celebrate his success. It had nothing to do with him. He was in it only because he wanted to learn new things, he wanted to compose. Music had always been the thing that helped him survive. And Melinda paid for it, that was a reason too. She didn't pay much and, well, there wasn't any success in it, really, not for him, them, and not for Phil Coulson, not yet. It was not like he won an award, he simply wrote a book. And Melinda thought it was worth celebrating. The simple fact that her friend once again did something that used to be easy for him.

The truth was, this time it wasn't easy, from what she had told them, so actually, writing alone was kind of a success. Melinda's friend managed to face his weakness, overcome some obstacles and come out on top. And she'd supported him all the way through.

Suddenly Grant wished he'd had that. A friend who would stick up for him, believe in him, have his back when... The truth was that he had burned all his bridges, even those with his closest family. He had been the one to blame for having no one now.

And he hadn't even realized how much he'd needed that, until that brief innocent joke with total strangers.

His skin felt too tight. Like something inside him trembled and shook, something primeval. He needed space, space and air and silence. Fitz and Simmons prepped their cellos next to the piano and they discussed what they would play with Melinda and Antoine. Grant turned and went to the kitchen, he hoped - unnoticed. Maybe a glass of water would help.

He hoped he didn't run, he hoped he didn't look like he was desperate, he didn't want to draw attention to himself. Their voices still carried, but quieter from a distance. He took the glass and poured himself cold water. But he didn't want to drink, took a small sip instead. It wasn't freezing, it wasn't enough to shock him out of this haze. He was still shaking inside.

"What's wrong?" A hand landed on his shoulder and he spun, slamming his back against the handle of the fridge. "Sorry." Melinda lifted both palms and took a step back. "Just wanted to check if you were okay?"

Grant wiped his face as if it would help. Then he nodded with too much urgency to really seem okay. Melinda didn't buy it and, helpless, he showed her he was empty handed, he left his writing pad next to his violin, didn't think he'd need it and now he couldn't tell her what, or if anything, was wrong. She understood, nodded and left and he should have felt relieved but instead he only felt more desperate. He needed her here. He needed someone, something to take the edge off or else he was going to burst.

She returned. And she brought his writing pad.

Holding it in his hand, Grant didn't know what to do with it for a long while. His heart hammered in his chest and words just wouldn't form. He didn't know. He couldn't explain why, what happened, without remembering what was at the root of it all. Without disclosing what made him like this.

He couldn't.

_It's too much_, he wrote finally, because she waited and he needed to say something.

In the background Fitz and Simmons begun to play 'Sky' – the accompaniment, with Antoine leading on his violin. They sounded like one, in perfect harmony, never missing a note, never striking the wrong phrase.

_They are good_, Grant wrote. Melinda didn't see it, turned away, enchanted and Grant watched her for a moment, hand at her chest, eyes blinking too fast. He erased the message. She noticed his movement then, glanced at the pad, grabbed his wrist but it was empty already. She looked up, brow furrowed. She wanted to know what he said.

_You have your quartet right here_, Grant told her instead. _Violin and two cellos + your double bass. Is what you wanted_.

She shook her head, pursed her lips but he had made his decision already. He couldn't do this. He brushed right past her, back to the music room. Antoine grinned at him from above his chinrest and Grant nodded, attempted a smile and gave Fitz and Simmons a thumb-up. Then he quickly put his violin back in its case and left before anyone could stop him.

* * *

><p>t.b.c.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

**The Girl from the Bus  
><strong>**Chapter Five**

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><p>The music piece accompanying this chapter is <em>Diana Krall - Fly Me to the Moon <em>(youtube com (slash) watch?v=qVCgf6_M7i4 )

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><p>The trip back home was sort of a nightmare. Grant survived it, exhausted but with his pride relatively intact. He didn't throw up, didn't pass out and didn't embarrass himself more than by rapidly escaping at a random bus-stop and not answering people's concerned questions. Then he fled. And then he didn't know where he was but it was better than being in the crowd. He found his way home after a couple of hours.<p>

Melinda sent him a message the next day that the "cello twins" as she called them, ganged up with Antoine and the three of them were trying to make her life miserable. Grant didn't reply. The next day she told him that they made some changes to 'Sky' and it was beginning to sound happy now. Giggly. This time Grant wrote back, that he thought that was what it needed. On Wednesday morning he went to the book store and requested _anything by Phil Coulson_. He went back home with three large books

He cried over the first one till three a.m. when his eyes closed on their own accord – and he woke up late for the first time since primary school. It was a story of a young painter who, right before her first big exhibition, witnessed a brutal assault. She stood up to the oppressors, like the cavalry coming to the rescue, and... they raped her along with their earlier victim. That's where the story started and Grant followed her struggles. First the police accused her of endangering the life of one of the attackers – she'd carried a knife and, in self defense, thrust it into his stomach. Then he hated the boyfriend who blamed the girl for what happened, as if her body was his property. At least after the initial shock the boy understood his mistake and later tried to make it up to her but the damage had already been done. She pushed everyone away, friends and family, it took her years of living in hell before, eventually, she rose like a phoenix from the ashes. She became an activist in an institute for women rights and, shortly after, she started painting again. At that point Grant's attention waned and he fell asleep, but he picked the book up again the moment he opened his eyes in the morning. He learned about how the boyfriend supported her fight for recognizing rights of the survivors, how she tried to rebuild the relationship between them and that it never quite happened. At least, at the very end of the novel, they agreed that they would always have friendship.

The next story – and Grant started reading it immediately after finishing the first one – was about a kid from a rough neighborhood. Small and skinny, Chris was mocked and ridiculed by everyone but he didn't let it wear him down. It was his strength of spirit and goodness – and one loyal friend – that got him through the rough youth and let him emerge as a hero when he became a psychologist and helped those who didn't believe they could be helped.

Grant understood why Coulson was so revered. He could see the best in characters who might otherwise be labeled as meek and uninteresting. He uncovered their strengths, where the world saw none. He gave them a chance, believed they'd get through the worst ordeal and emerge stronger for it, on the other side. He wished Coulson would write the rest of his life.

On Friday Grant texted Maria Hill to tell her that he was going to skip this practice at the Community Center, took the last of the books – the award winning "Heart of Iron", about a soldier who returned from the war damaged and turned his life around to become a doctor and begun to save lives in the middle of the war zone, instead of taking them – and he knocked on Melinda's door.

She opened almost immediately, her face astounded but hopeful.

Grant handed her the pad with a prepared message: _I want to meet this guy_. He knocked the book he held in his hand.

The small twist of Melinda's lips brightened her whole face; the true smile was in her eyes.

"Oh, you will." She grabbed his arm. "You will, but not before the reception. I can't spoil the surprise."

She pulled him inside the house and straight to the music room, where Antoine and Fitz were in contest over who yelled louder and Jemma sat with her chin on her palm and a bored expression on her face.

"Guys, look who's back," Melinda announced as if he was their long lost relative whom they had all missed for years.

The men stopped arguing abruptly and spun to look at him, while Jemma stood up and clasped her hands.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" She carefully rested her cello against the side of the chair and, with much less caution, ran up to Grant. Only when he instinctively took a step back, she stopped. "I'm... sorry. Did you leave, back then, because of me? I hope it wasn't because of me, Melinda said it was something else, but she wouldn't say what and I worried. I really want to apologize for my impoliteness." She would have continued talking like this, because Grant didn't even know how to cut in, had her friend not intervened.

"Jemma." He put a hand on her arm. "You're doing it again."

Grant shook his head but they ignored his attempt at non verbally stating that it was alright.

"Am I?" Jemma asked, saddened. "I am, I totally am."

"Then stop."

Grant reached for his pad.

"Both of you, stop." Melinda shook her head exasperated. "See what I have to deal with?" she turned to Grant.

_At least they play well_, Grant wrote.

"That they do."

Jemma wanted to know what he said and he showed her. Then she wanted to know why he couldn't speak and Leo rebuked her that she was being insensitive. Grant wanted to tell them. He genuinely wanted to explain, to let them understand, but he felt something block him. He felt his throat tighten painfully. It was not the right moment and Melinda, along with Antoine saved him from having to bare his soul, by reminding they were here to play the music.

Instead of 'Sky', though, she made them practice other pieces.

"We have a whole reception to fill and I already confirmed with Phil's agent that I'm going to provide all music. He's planning the whole thing around this theme. He says it's a great idea and I can't back out now, even if we don't have the pianist."

Over the next couple of weeks Grant and Melinda practiced allegro from Debussy's Sonata. It wasn't easy to find classical chamber composition for two cellos but Melinda found Ravel's Sonata for violin and cello and Leo and Jemma somehow made it work between the two of them, with Antoine on the violin. The melody was disturbing and Melinda said it fit with her idea of the theme. So did Grieg's String Quartet in G minor, but Jemma needed to switch her cello for viola. She and Leo were indeed good on every instrument, Grant even commended Leo for randomly playing a fragment of Brahms's String Quartet in A minor on violin, but Leo said he was not going to play on that instrument publically. Melinda finally settled on Debussy, Ravel and Grieg and Schubert's Trio in B flat to open the reception, as a pleasant-to-ear piece that would set the tone at the beginning. Finally, she chose one of her own compositions for violin, cello and bass. She hesitated between Antoine and Grant and eventually, by Grant's advice, decided to give Jemma a chance on a violin. Jemma didn't disappoint.

They still auditioned pianists but the candidate pool diminished significantly. Melinda didn't want any men and she only admitted women of a very specific age – between twenty and twenty five. She was looking for something in them and couldn't find it. Grant gave up advising her, Antoine was growing impatient, while Jemma and Leo couldn't understand what the deal was.

"Can't we just play it without a piano?" Leo asked one Friday afternoon, barely over a month till the big day. "We can play a quintet, we sound good together but we really should practice that piece of yours, if we want to perform it. There isn't much time left."

"Or you might play the piano part, instead of bass," inferred Jemma. "If piano is so important."

"It is important!" May stood up and started pacing the room, arms folded on her chest, brow furrowed. "Alright. If you really have to know, the main character in Phil's new novel is a pianist. A girl. Young girl named Sunny, who was an orphan but loved playing so much and was so determined, that she basically taught herself everything. The novel is her story and if this piece is going to complete the novel, there must be a piano!"

While listening to her outburst, Grant remembered about someone who fit this profile to a T. He lifted his hand and reached for the pad.

_I know her,_ he wrote and handed the note to Melinda.

She glared at him, taken aback. "You know her, how? She's a character from a novel."

Grant wanted to respond that Phil wrote about real people; based his characters on actual, living people. Ming, the main character from "The Cavalry" was obviously based on Melinda herself, but with a different profession. After brief consideration he refrained from waking painful memories, though.

_Last year_, he wrote instead, _we were searching for a pianist for the orchestra. A girl auditioned. She said something about being an orphan and teaching herself. We didn't admit her because her style was_, Grant hesitated.

"It was what?" Melinda stood over his right arm, watching him write. Others gathered around too.

_Contemporary. But I think Maestro Fury used another word_.

Trip giggled and Jemma muttered, "Stop it!" but there was laughter in her voice as well.

_Maybe Maria Hill would have her address? Her name was Mary Sue_, he hesitated again – couldn't remember, _something_.

"Wait a minute, Mary Sue?" Jemma exclaimed behind Grant's back and he jumped involuntary. "Fitz, do you remember? That pub next to Lynn Woods Park? That girl playing piano there?"

"Yeah. I remember. She was a real humdinger."

"He means she was great. And when the manager introduced her as Mary Sue Poots, she said she'd rather be recognized under her stage name." Jemma paused dramatically and gave everyone a glare with a satisfied smirk. "She preferred to be called Skye."

"Sky?" Melinda repeated, dumbfounded.

"Spelled S‑K‑Y‑E."

They all looked at one another in various stages of astonishment. Antoine recovered first, as usual.

"Looks like you're gonna have to change the title of your piece," he grinned at Melinda.

"Looks like we're going for a beer tonight," Melinda replied.

Briefly, a thought ran through Grant's head, that this was a bad idea. Pub meant crowds and noise, and might not bode well for him. He couldn't let down his friends though. He needed their trust, he needed them to know they could believe in him, that he wouldn't fail. He was committed to this project now and he would prove it – to them and to himself.

The pub was in the cellar. They found the place early in the evening, people slowly filling in. Soft hum of conversations carried over the delicate, melodious sounds of piano. Dimmed lights brought about the atmosphere of grime obscurity, the effect being obviously deliberate. The most prominent experience, thought, at least for Grant's senses, came with the smell – the specific mixture of moist and stale air that made his intestines recoil. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, when he felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest. There was still time to call it off, he thought, to tell the others that he couldn't do it.

Leo entered ahead of him, complaining about the low ceiling over the narrow staircase and not enough light inside. Jemma followed him, exasperated with his whining. At some point, Grant didn't notice when, she took his hand in hers and pulled him gently when he hesitated. Antoine was right behind him with Melinda at the rear. In the end Grant didn't tell them anything, didn't indicate his discomfort in any way.

"There she is." Melinda pointed at the scene, hidden in the shadow, on the other side of the long, narrow room. "We need to catch her during a break." She strode ahead purposefully, to the table next to the small dance floor.

Jemma kept pulling Grant with her and together they dodged round the patrons, following Melinda. All the while Grant felt Antoine's presence at his back, gentle hands on his shoulders grounding him.

"Take your seats, I'll order us some beers." Melinda disposed.

"Back stage exit," Antoine told Leo under his breath, pointing into the shadow behind the piano.

"She really is good." Jemma called their attention to the girl who played.

Grant couldn't remember if he had met this girl the day she'd auditioned for the Orchestra. He must have but if he had, she had looked different, probably had worn some official attire. Now, she had her long hair loose and they flowed around her arms in waves and curls. She wore a checkered shirt and jeans and she looked nothing like the classical musician. If anything she had that air of a rock-star about her.

Contrary to her appearance, she played a classic.

Grant recognized Chopin's waltz and Mary Sue – no, Skye, that name fit this artist much better – put so much joy into the piece, it was impossible to tell it was a distressing nineteenth century melody. It definitely wasn't played the way the conservative director at the community orchestra would see fit. Still, it was flawless and, listening to her, Grant felt how his anxiety slowly begun to dissipate.

After she finished the waltz, Skye begun to play Diana Krall's cover of "Fly Me to the Moon" with so much sass and enthusiasm Grant couldn't help but smile.

"Oh, I can't-" Antoine only made it through the first half of the song. He grabbed Jemma's hand and whispered theatrically. "You have to dance this with me."

Jemma giggled and nodded and they flew to the small dance floor like pair of fluffy kittens. Antoine was a good dancer but Jemma had as much grace as a willow branch. They still seemed to enjoy their dance tremendously.

Leo looked a little disgruntled but he smirked under his nose. Melinda twisted her lips in the widest smile Grant had seen on her to date – she even showed some teeth – and grabbed Grant's hand saying, "And you will dance with me, mister." And that was it.

Smell of alcohol on her breath made him feel trapped. Smell of alcohol and the cellar. The cellar, the low ceiling, walls closing in. The person that was not really there, couldn't be.

"Grant?" he heard a voice coming from very far away, but he couldn't tell if it was male or female.

He felt like all air got sucked from his lungs and floor escaped from under his feet and he was hanging above the vast ravine. He couldn't make a move and the sound of the piano faded into the background, replaced by a deafening thud of his own blood. Melinda's palm on his wrist burned, but he couldn't remove it from her grip.

He was aware that he was panting but the air felt like it was too thin, like it wouldn't sustain him and he desperately needed something more solid, more tangible. His heart couldn't pump blood fast enough. He heard Melinda talk to him, hovering, shouting. Leo joined her ("backstage door!") and forced him to stand up, pulled, pushed, but all Grant wanted was to curl into a ball and crawl under the table. He wasn't there. He wasn't really there. This had to be what going out of one's mind felt like. Grant would have laughed if he wasn't so thoroughly terrified. Part of him knew what was going on but it was quiet, shy, hidden deep inside the wild animal, the primeval beast, overwhelmed with fight or flight response.

That terrified part of him was back there, in another cellar, with another man.

Arms held him upright, exposed. "Breathe, just breathe," voice said. Hand stroke his back. Images swam before his eyes, of faces, walls, "Where the hell are you going?" but he couldn't keep his eyes on either of them long enough to recognize. He tried to free himself but he was too weak.

He felt like trapped and, at the same time, completely striped, unsheltered. He couldn't tell how long it lasted. Felt like forever. He finally came to the sensation of a hand rubbing circles on his back, incessant, firm but not invading. Grant realized he was leaning forward, hands on his knees, his ass propped against the wall, panting like a fish out of water. Outside, in the back alley. It was dark and quiet, only Leo stood next to him, keeping guard and stroking his bent back. Melinda paced back and forth in front of a girl in a checkered shirt, a few steps away. At his feet, Grant saw vomit, some of it staining his shoes.

Breathing still came with difficulty but at least Grant's perception of reality returned and with it overwhelming shame. They saw him having a panic attack. He wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

"Shhh," Leo whispered into his ear. "You're okay. Everything's gonna be okay."

Except it wasn't. Grant could see it in Melinda's face when she turned to look at him.

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><p>t.b.c.<p>

A/N: Thank you for reading. If you like this story, I would really like to hear from you. :) Please, review.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Girl from the Bus  
><strong>**Chapter Six**

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><p>The music piece accompanying this chapter is <em>Bear McCreary – Prelude to War<em> (youtube com (slash) watch?v=SlcUwUwjLrs )

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><p>Melinda drove him back home after the incident. She didn't say a word during the drive. Silence was heavy and uncomfortable but what was Grant supposed to say? And, more importantly, how? He was glad she knew him well enough not to ask, but the unspoken questions still hung in the air.<p>

Grant didn't sleep most of the night and when he did fall asleep, he dreamt about an entirely different cellar. He woke up with the worst kind of scream – unreleased, deep in his throat.

He took extra long to get to Melinda's the next morning and when he finally arrived, he found the ensemble playing in front of a small, skinny blond man. Skye sat at the piano and only joined here and there, not yet familiar with the composition. Grant had feared yesterday that his indisposition repelled her, turned her against this group and the whole concept, so he took her presence at Melinda's house with great relief. He watched and listened from the outside, waiting for them to finish. Once they did, he entered without knocking.

The conversation died out when they saw him. He waved his hand in a timid hello and while the rest remained strangely quiet, Melinda shook her head.

"Excuse me," she said to the blond man and came toward Grant. "We need to talk." She gently took his elbow and led him into the kitchen and with each step he realized with more and more clarity, that his yesterday's indisposition did actually repel someone. "I am really sorry, Grant." Melinda begun in a low voice when they were in private. The rest of the team remained near the piano, on the other side of the recliner and the open kitchen counter. They discussed something among themselves, Antoine waving his arms, Jemma pouting and Leo with his arms crossed over his chest. Skye glanced in Grant's direction but quickly averted her eyes. Only the blond stranger looked at him openly and with a strange, out-of-place, encouraging smile.

Grant really didn't want to hear Melinda's words, he tried for as long as he could to ignore the message. "This reception is really important to me," she was explaining. "It's a big day for Phil and I want it to be perfect, I can't let anything... I can't even have a small glitch and this... Grant, I really like you a lot and I value your talent. I recognize that you had a big part in creating 'Sky'... and, oh my god, do you know that she can hear herself in it? She really does." Melinda blinked her eyes rapidly several times. "You are the co-author I won't deny you that. But after what happened to you yesterday... I know you told me at the beginning that you weren't well and I ignored it. Now I can't. I can't let something like this happen at Phil's reception. Do you understand?"

Grand had put his violin case on the kitchen counter and pulled his writing pad but now he stared at its empty surface and he didn't know how to answer. His problem wasn't inability to talk, to produce sound with his throat. No, it was his outright inability to communicate.

What was he supposed to say? That it wouldn't happen? He couldn't, in good conscience, guarantee that. Yes, he knew exactly what caused yesterday's attack. It wasn't the crowd, it wasn't Melinda's touch. True, people made him anxious, physical contact was uncomfortable but it would take much more of it to cross his endurance threshold. No, it was the smell. The atmosphere of the cellar brought on buried memories, triggered a brief flashback and that triggered a panic attack.

It was not going to happen in a different setting. But how was he supposed to make Melinda believe him? Right there, Grant's entire dream fell into pieces.

"I really wish we could do it together." Melinda put her hand on his forearm, in a gesture meant to be consoling. "But I can't take the risk. Another time, maybe?"

It was a veiled way of saying it would never happen.

"I don't think this is fair," Antoine said quietly from behind Melinda's back.

Grant looked up, startled, and saw they were all here: Leo, Jemma and even Skye stood on the other side of the counter. The stranger approached Melinda, whispered something into her ear – he wasn't taller than her – squeezed her arm, added, "I'll give you a call," then said, "Good luck!" to all of them and quietly left the house.

"That was Steve Rogers, Phil Coulson's agent," Antoine informed Grant. "I think he took liking to you." He smirked at Melinda.

"We talked about this," she countered.

"And it is ultimately your decision. But we disagree with it, as does Steve and we will attempt to change it. Assuming, of course," he looked at Grant, "that you still want to be a part of this project. You showed up today, so it's safe to bet that you do."

Grant nodded.

"We figured you know what happened yesterday," Leo cut in, his eyes earnest and hopeful. "Right, Grant? Something triggered it and I'm sure you know what. If you do, you only need to avoid that trigger." If it only was that simple. "Maybe, if you explain it to us, we'd help you through the performance. To assure that no disaster would ruin it." He stared at Melinda.

"You practiced with us, you helped create this piece and you taught me so much. I can't imagine playing it without you," added Jemma, also looking at Melinda.

Grant was stunned. He didn't remember teaching Jemma anything, she had already been genius. And what Leo said, if he told them, explained how his brain worked, they would have his back. Wasn't that what he had thought himself a moment ago? He hadn't believed it made any sense but now, when they said it, it somehow sounded like it was possible.

He had let things happen to him for far too long. For half his life he'd let things pass him by, opportunities, chances, people who might give a damn. Not anymore. He was going to take matters into his own hands now, even if it meant fighting, even if it meant baring his soul, taking a risk, opening himself to more hurt. And it wasn't because of performance that might gain him points in the professional sense. It wasn't even for the sake of music itself. No, it was because of them, those people, Melinda included, because she hasn't spoken now, only looked at him expectantly, her eyes speaking louder than her voice, that if he only said one word – in a figurative sense – she would believe him. She would believe in him. They meant too much to give up on, Grant knew it now.

"Oh, and can I say one thing now?" Skye lifted her hand like a schoolgirl. "Because I'm new here, so maybe I don't have a say, but they told me... things. And, well, I kind of couldn't not-see you yesterday. But... It doesn't matter. What I wanted to say is that, if it's easier for you, you may sign. I mean, I know sign. ASL. I had a deaf friend back at the orphanage, so I kind of learned." She paused. Pursed her lips. Then blurted. "If you want." She didn't lower her eyes, even though he could say she felt somewhat embarrassed.

Grant nodded and touched his lips in a "thank you" sign.

Then, without really thinking it through, he added another sign, a couple of sweeps of his palms and fingers that held half of his life. He didn't know if she would understand – it wasn't exactly a sign one would use in a chit-chat among teenager friends. He hoped that she would know it though and at the same time he hoped that she wouldn't. If she wouldn't, the danger of revealing everything about his past would be averted.

If she did, opening the door to his future, would be possible.

"Wait, kidnapped?" Skye whispered. "Do you mean you were kidnapped?"

* * *

><p>Grant was fourteen when it happened. He was a quiet fourteen years old boy, overshadowed and envious of his quarterback older brother, in charge of taking care of younger brother and sister, deemed a prodigy violinist. He'd rather play football or at least baseball at the time, like all other boys, but his parents wouldn't let him – he might break a finger and then what?<p>

He was coming back from his violin practice that day. He could recall to this day what the teacher had said then – "Forget everything I taught you so far. Forget that you have to play in tune. You've learned that already, now, you need to forget that this is the most important thing. You need to climb to the next level. And in it, what is true is that you may sometimes miss notes and still have a masterpiece. You may hit wrong notes and still shot right through people's hearts. Because what matters in music, is the emotion, is what you make them feel with it. If you listen to the best performances in the world, they do not amaze you with technique. It is how they make you cry and laugh and hope and grow, that truly matters." Grant was a little angry that he had spent eight years playing exercises over and over and over. He had always wanted to do this instead – to play what he felt in his gut.

He walked home muttering to himself and promising hell to his teacher, when that car pulled up.

"Hey, kiddo?" asked a man inside. "I am your father's friend, I'm just going to see your old man. You wanna hop in? I'll give you a lift."

Grant hadn't recognized this man but then, his father had so many colleagues. Besides, he still had quite a distance to his house. He didn't think twice before getting into a car with a stranger.

He only realized after fifteen minutes of fun conversation, that they weren't going to his house, but through a completely unfamiliar neighborhood. At first he started calmly asking about it but when the man didn't give a straight answer, he got scared. When he started to argue, the man punched him in the side of his head and knocked him down.

Next five years were still something he wouldn't divulge. Grant only told Skye, and through her the others, about things that reminded him of that time, smells, sounds, certain ways John – that was the man's name – would grab him. People, crowded places, were an issue for many years after he'd returned because out there, where he had been kept, he had been sometimes alone for days at a time and beside that, John had been his only human contact. Music, playing violin when John hadn't been with him, had kept him sane.

It kept him sane after he'd returned too. That's why performing, playing, even for full auditorium, even with seventy something people of the Orchestra, was never a problem. That's why he could almost guarantee that once they'd start playing, they'd be safe, he wouldn't flip out. Almost, because that was the thing about anxiety – one had no control over the symptoms.

"I still think it's worth the risk," Antoine spoke when Skye finished talking and they stayed silent for about half a minute, that felt like ten years for Grant. Antoine, what was unusual for him, wasn't grinning.

Melinda stood up and walked to the window overlooking slope of the meadow.

"Try to look at it this way," Antoine followed her. "Does he play well?"

"Yes."

"Of course. Does he know the piece?"

"Like no one else."

"There you go. Do you really need anything else to make up your mind?"

* * *

><p>t.b.c.<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

**The Girl from the Bus  
><strong>**Chapter Seven**

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><p>The music piece accompanying this chapter is <em>Claude Debussy – Violin Sonata in G minor<em> (youtube com (slash) watch?v=9vBu96yn-cA )

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><p><strong>AN:**The fragment about Skye that I'm sure you'll recognize, was written by Monica Owusu-Breen & Jed Whedon – screen writers of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (Episode 1x12 "Seeds") *

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><p>On the day of the performance they met at Melinda's early in the morning. She rented a van that was supposed to take them to a hotel in Boston. The reception was planned to begin at eighteen hundred hours so they had more than enough time to get there, prepare themselves and even do one more rehearsal.<p>

They had gone over the plan for the whole party with Steve Rogers two days earlier. Phil Coulson was still in the dark about Melinda's gift to him, and especially about Skye – he only knew that she was going to play a few pieces of classical music with a group of people he didn't know.

Grant left his hotel room – cleanly shaven, dressed in a rented tux, violin in hand – five minutes before five. Melinda requested them to be present at seventeen hundred hours, to quickly run through all pieces and smooth out last kinks and Grant wouldn't be late. In the lift he ran into Skye. She looked gorgeous, in a knee-long red dress, with her wavy hair pinned on one side, in full make up.

"I feel ridiculous," she said. "This is so not my style."

"You beautiful," Grant signed.

"Yeah. I'm supposed to say thank you. So. Thank you." She bowed, half mocking, half really, really scared.

"You know Coulson, how?" Grant asked to turn her attention away from the performance itself, onto something that might still not be seen as totally out of left field.

"I haven't told you that? Oh, I guess I talked to the rest of the gang when we first met. You were a little... Inattentive. Sorry. Yeah, we met on the bus from Boston to Hubbard. I kind of learned where I came from that day and I decided to start a new life in some random town. Was silly enough to mistake interstate bus station with in-state bus station, can you believe that? The first bus was going to Hubbard and I boarded it, sat next to PC and... well... Poured my heart out to him, basically. When I first learned from Melinda that he'd turned it into a book, I was sort of pissed, but I knew his other books, so... Didn't know it was him when I talked to him, mind you. Only realized that when Melinda told me. 'Heart of Iron' and 'The Cavalry' are pretty kick-ass, so my being mad was short-lived. I'm in a good company, no?" She chuckled.

Grant could understand the sentiment.

"Here's the ballroom," Skye announced and Grant read it as a change of subject.

Melinda was already there, commandeering two bulky men to move the grand piano "over there. No, a little to the left. Left, I said!" She was a small woman, now dressed in a long, slim, simmering white dress that made her look delicate, like a porcelain figure, but she emanated such imperious air – as usual – that the two bulky men did as she told them without protest.

Then they brought Melinda's bass and while she stood before the scene, hands on her hips, and dictated its exact placement, Antoine, Leo and Jemma joined Grant and Skye. The two men wore tuxedos, like Grant, and Jemma wore emerald dress with golden embroidery, which enhanced the hazel color of her eyes.

Together, they made quite a stunning gang.

"Alright, quick." Melinda was finally satisfied with the placement of all the instruments and the chairs and wanted them to play 'Sky' first. Once they finished, the frown on her face deepened.

Everything was just like back home, Skye played her best – she didn't follow the lead of the violins, contradicted every phrase, only respected one set of rules – her own. That's how it was in the sheets. Bass and the cellos supported violins and both violins – Antoine's in the lead, like Melinda had wanted – performed impeccably. Nonetheless, the composer was not satisfied.

"Something's missing," she commented.

"You're being too much of a perfectionist again," Antoine rebuked her. "People will love it, I'm telling you. No one will notice this elusive _something_. Your friend will be enchanted."

"I will notice," Melinda sneered. "No matter. It's too late to change anything now. Skye, go to the room backstage. Grant, you may stay in the ballroom if you want. The rest of you, let's begin with Grieg."

As previously agreed with Steve Rogers, Skye was supposed to stay in hiding for the whole reception and only come out at the final moment, when, after the reading of a fragment of the novel, they would play Melinda's gift to Phil. Skye herself was supposed to be a part of the surprise. She wasn't very happy about it.

"You won't be able to taste any refreshments. And they are going to have truly savory refreshments at Hilton," Jemma had sympathized two days ago, when they had been adjusting the details, and Skye had rolled her eyes. It was so not about that.

Besides...

"We are not going to forget about you," Steve had promised. Grant was beginning to suspect he was the original of Chris from 'Man with a Shield'.

He did good on his promise, as backstage room Skye was sent to was endowed with all kinds of petite sandwiches, fruits and snacks, sodas, lemonades and a few bottles of wine and champagne, just like the main ballroom.

"I wait with," Grant signed. "You mind? No?"

"Of course not, silly. You want?..." She looked around, pointed at the bottle of wine.

"Alcohol? No."

"Yeah, you're probably right. After the party then. Here, have some juice."

Fifteen minutes before the reception Steve informed Melinda that first guests arrived in the foyer, so she joined them back stage, leaving Antoine and cello twins to doodle some quiet background. Shubert's Trio provided neutral intro, just like Melinda wanted. Of course Jemma had to play viola but the only one who complained about it incessantly was Leo. The allegro was about ten minutes long and after that they switched to first movement from Grieg's Quartet transcribed for three string instruments. Melinda agreed for Grant to play 'Sky' with them, but she cut back his role significantly. Apart from reducing him to second violin, she requested that he didn't come out prior, so, over the past month, Antoine practiced first violin in Grieg and Jemma and Leo were more than enough to compensate for the lack of the second violin. Grant didn't protest, in fact he agreed that this was the best for everyone involved. The last piece was a shorter allegro from Ravel's sonata for violin and cello played by violin and two cellos.

While the three of them played, Grant sat on the couch in the back room and Melinda walked back and forth its length. Skye stood in the slightly ajar door and gaped at the gathering guests. She informed them of each new arrival, at least those she knew and, well, it was many. She grew up in Boston after all, so recognizing the Mayor and his wife was not such a stretch. Most guests were of course connected with publishing market in one way or another – editors, other writers, and most importantly critics. But, because of the character and theme of the novel, Phil also invited some people from the Philharmonic circles. Skye recognized the director of the Conservatory, the director of the Philharmonic and, to her and Grant's utter surprise, director Fury from Hubbard Community Orchestra.

"He's a friend with Boston Philharmonic director and, well, he was a candidate for the position himself." She paused, sighed and shook her head. "People always said that it was because he got into some fight, lost his eye and lost the chance for leading one of the most famous orchestras in the world," she said bitterly. "But it's not true." She turned to Melinda and Grant. "Fury didn't get this job simply because he's black," she informed them in a conspiratory whisper, then frowned. "Why are looking at me like this? Jemma told me."

"We knew that," Melinda answered quietly. Of course they did. Officially no one spoke about it out loud but if one wanted to know, they knew.

"Oh..." Skye pursed her lips. Then she nodded. "Good."

She turned red under her makeup, probably embarrassed that she'd believed in a racist rumor for so long. She was young though, had only ventured into the world of professional musicians less than a year ago. She had no reason to beat herself over not knowing the backdoor secrets of the big leagues. It's not like any of them could do anything about it anyway.

Steve, coming up onto the stage, made them turn their attention back toward the theme of the evening. He interrupted the Ravel, Antoine stopped playing and the two cellos followed suit.

"May I have everyone's attention, please?" The conversations died down and the people turned to the speaker. Even Grant stood up and looked above Skye's head, through the crack in the door, at the assembly. "As all of you well know, we meet here to celebrate the success of our great friend Phil Coulson. The publishing of his new novel, 'The Girl from the Bus'. Yes, I do not hesitate to call the mere fact of publishing this novel a success, before it even hits the bookstores, before it wins awards. It's a personal success. It's been five long years since Phil last published something, so breaking that spell – yes, it is a big deal.

I have to state here that I never doubted that he would return." Steve added in a secretive manner and was rewarded with a few chuckles and some clapping.

"Thank you. The theme of this assembly is music and it's not without a reason. The story Phil wrote is a story of a young musician, a pianist, who moved to a new town – rode there on the bus, hence the title – with nothing but a book of note-sheets in her pack and dreams in her head. It wasn't easy, she encountered obstacles, difficulties on the road, but she never, ever gave up. And she reminded Phil about his dreams, at least that's how he describes it. Welcome, Phil Coulson!"

The announcement was met with louder ovations. Skye tried to be discreet with wiping her eyes and Grant pretended he didn't see anything. At least he was the only one who could. Phil came up onto the stage and Grant thought the writer was not what he'd imagined. Not very tall, balding man in his mid fifties, dressed in plain gray suit, he looked like an accountant. The way he spoke was well-mannered and polite.

"Yes, indeed, she helped me dream again, Steve." He smiled at everyone present. Grant could only see his profile from where he hid, along with Skye, but Phil's face seemed to be very kind and, well, also very polite. "Thank you for this introduction and thank you to everyone for coming. As most of you know, five years ago my life changed drastically. I had a heart attack and it was severe enough that I died. Yes, died. It was only for about eight seconds, but what people say about the other side experience... Well, for a very long time after my brush with death, I wasn't sure I returned whole. I couldn't write and what Steve said is true, I thought I never would again.

"It's strange and perhaps difficult to understand for someone who had never been through anything like this, but when you have such a traumatic experience, you become scared to live again. You are alive but you are not really living, almost as if you were half here and half over there, dead. It's not a good way to live." Grant, even though he still stood in the backstage room, behind Skye, felt as if Phil Coulson was speaking those words directly to him. You can't live like this. It is not life.

"But then I met this girl," Phil continued, "while riding on the bus from Boston to Haggard and she told me her life story. She told me about her dreams and her ambitions. She told me about all the obstacles she faced and how she surmounted each of them. She told me she didn't share easily but that sharing with me made her feel safe. There is no more beautiful gift than that." Phil patted his sides. He tried to do it discretely and didn't quite succeed. "I don't know her name. She only introduced herself with a nickname. I'll probably never meet her again, but maybe she will one day recognize herself in this story. Or maybe other young people will recognize themselves... maybe older people, like me, will too." He thrust his hand into his pocket and moved it in a frantic search for some item that must have hid in there. "This is a story about hope, about belief in the future, about faith that nothing is ever lost, nothing is ever over. I hope that you will find that belief for yourselves in it too."

"She was a pianist, Phil, wasn't she?" Steve came to the microphone again, perhaps recognizing that something made his friend uncomfortable.

"Yes, yes she was," Phil replied, fighting with a pocket of his suit, head bowed.

"What are you doing, Phil?"

"It's nothing. She was..." Phil sniffed loudly.

"You are not crying, are you?"

"I'm trying not to." He pulled his hand finally, with a tissue in it and with a victorious smile wiped his nose and eyes. "Sorry about that. Just hear me out, Steve. She was a pianist. And even though I changed a lot of things for the book, her name, all the places, even the events of her life, anything that could be recognizable – I felt bad for using her story without her permission, without her even knowing about it, you understand? – I didn't change the instrument. I thought about it, I thought about changing her profession entirely, but music, piano music, was so important to her, I decided to leave it just as in the real world."

"Yes. Thank you for sharing that, Phil. Are you calm now? You okay? Good. Well, then, Phil, one of your closest friends is a musician, right?" He signaled a cue for Melinda to come up onto the stage and she gently moved Skye out of the way, to exit the backstage room. "Yes. Well, she is as happy that you returned to writing as the rest of us, and to express that happiness, she's going to play for you now, on a piano. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome Melinda May. Oh, great, now you're crying again."

Ovations were loud and heartfelt and Grant could see a few people wiping their eyes. Melinda, as she hugged Phil on the stage, didn't even try to hide her tears and Skye...

"Oh, my God, I had no idea I could have such an influence on someone." She sniffed and walked to her purse to take out a tissue. "Gosh, how am I going to come out and play now?"

Grant touched her arm and when she turned, he signed that she was going to do great. Didn't come up with anything more constructive. Jemma and Leo came into the room as well, leaving Antoine to play Debussy with Melinda. It didn't take longer than for Leo to say, "Well, that was lovely," and both girls were hugging, sobbing and whining that their make ups were getting messed up, then crying some more.

When Melinda and Antoine finished playing Jemma started to panic that she wasn't ready but fortunately now was the time for Phil's publisher, Thomas Odinson to say a few words and then Phil's childhood friend Anthony Stark, now a known philanthropist and owner of 'Stark & Potts' education company introduced himself, apologized for interrupting and proceeded to tell anecdotes from Phil's life.

"It was Phil who introduced Mr. Stark and his partner Ms Potts," Jemma said knowingly, while re-applying mascara. "And rumor has it that she's not only his partner in business."

"You know, how?" Grant signed and Skye interpreted it very eloquently, "How do you know all that stuff anyway? It's like you dig out shit on everybody."

"What is wrong in a love story?" Jemma asked, indignant. "I think they make a beautiful couple. Much like Phil Coulson and our Melinda would. And they had once been a couple, except shit happened." She gave them a look that meant she knew the reason for that, too. "I must go."

Steve told the guests to enjoy their wine and refreshments, while Jemma played violin in Melinda's trio with Leo and Melinda herself. Skye sat in front of the mirror, trying to recreate her makeup and Antoine stayed in the ballroom, mixing in with the crowds. Grant realized his palms were sweating.

He had no reason to be nervous. Like he had told Melinda, playing music for the audience had never been a problem for him. True, he had only performed with an orchestra before and orchestra consisted of many instrumentalists, too many to notice one individual. Chamber music was different in that regard. It would be six of them playing the grand finale tonight, so each of them might be recognized. He didn't believe he worried about that though. He didn't mean anything in this assembly, he was aware of that – Phil Coulson was the most important person here. If anyone, it was Melinda who would be the center of attention, because it was her idea, her gift to Phil, her composition. And then, it was about Skye. If the rumor mill worked, or if Phil recognized her – and he most likely would – she'd be the one everyone would focus on.

So Grant didn't matter enough to warrant such nervousness right now, at least that's what he told himself.

And then he thought that he actually wanted to matter. That he needed to be important, that he took this assignment to prove that he was still alive. Only if he put all his heart and soul into this performance, if he did something absolutely brilliant, if he made the audience notice him, despite there being more important members of the sextet – only then his life would become more than barely surviving. The truth was, he needed this recital more than Skye, more than Melinda, more than Phil Coulson. This could be the moment he would truly be saved.

It was stupid and dangerous to think this way but he had no way of convincing himself otherwise now. Not after what he'd heard Phil say earlier. After a traumatic experience like this, you become scared to live again. It's like you're half here and half over there. Grant knew that part of him was still locked up in that cabin in the woods, all alone and terrified.

"May I have everyone's attention, please?" Steve came up on the stage again. "Right now we would like you all to take your seats and give all of your attention to what you're about to listen to. Phil will read an excerpt from his new novel, 'The Girl from the Bus'. I hope this small fragment will remind some of you what an outstanding writer Phil is, how he can pull at the strings of our hearts, how he can make us feel and weep and love. And those of you who do not know his writing yet, I hope you will understand why the rest of us feel so strongly about him. Phil, would you please?"

"I thought you were to request an actor to read it?" Phil almost tripped over the microphone cord. He put on his glasses. "I can't really... What? Wasn't it supposed to be a different fragment, this..."

"Phil, just read it."

People begun clapping, Phil turned red and Grant felt as if his heart was about to jump out of his chest. That was the moment. During Phil's read, Skye was supposed to come out to the stage and begin playing. Solo first and only the basic melody. Phil was with his back to the stage, he wouldn't see her at first. Once he'd have finished, they would all come out as well and they would play 'Sky'.

And now Grant didn't know if he could do it. If he could play it with enough emotion, with enough commitment. He'd learned to keep his feelings in check, so they would not overwhelm him. Playing in an orchestra also required a certain level of restraint, so he knew how to control himself. What he didn't know, was what would happen if he lost control. If he let his true feelings speak. And only by doing that, he could achieve true maestry. Only by shooting right through people's hearts he would make them cry and laugh and hope and grow. To do that, he had to open his heart first though and that prospect made his head spin.

Of course, he might simply play 'Sky' the way he always had, without taking risks.

They were ready to go out. Violin in hand, Grant didn't have his writing pad with him and Skye, the only one who understood sign was at the door, counting second till she would walk out, Melinda right at her side. They were both nervous too. Grant needed them to know he was... he might not be able to do it. He touched the arm of the person who stood the nearest, Jemma. She turned to him with an excited smile on her face and furrowed her brow at the sight of his.

How was he supposed to...

"S... scared," he whispered.

She grabbed his palm in hers and tears shone in her eyes. "I know," she whispered back. She didn't let go. She held his hand through Phil's reading, and later, through Skye's first notes, while they were walking onto the stage. Slowly Grant's breathing evened out, his heart slowed, his mind begun to think clear.

"_That's the thing about Sunny_," Phil read while Skye, very quietly, approached the piano. "_What she learned about the death of her parents shattered her world. Her life long search led to stories of murder and now it was too difficult to continue. Her search was over, her story ended here. Should have ended right here. But she said, no, her story started here._" Over those words, Skye begun to play, piano, pianissimo. Phil glanced behind his back, but Steve urged him to continue reading and he turned to the book again, although it was evident that he was thrown off. "_All her life_," his voice shook more than earlier, "_she'd thought she hadn't been wanted, that she didn't belong, that every family that took her in didn't want her to stay, didn't care. But all that time, it had been the Marshals protecting her, looking after her. That's what she took away from the story. Not the family she'd never have, but the one she always had. Here the Marshal, the old, world-weary officer, was telling her something that could destroy her faith in humanity, and somehow she managed to repair a little piece of his._" It was time for all of them to walk out. Jemma kept holding Grant's hand and the final words of this fragment tore into Grant's heart, made him bleed and made him strong. "_The world was full of evil and lies and pain and death, and you couldn't hide from it. You could only face it. The question was, when you did, how did you respond? Who would you become?_" )*

Phil closed the book. Steve was out of the stage and this time he didn't make any announcement. Melinda joined Skye adding the very disturbing rhythm to her piano melody.

Antoine came before Grant and took the second chair, leaving the first violin position for him to take. "This seat belongs to you and you know this piece inside out," he whispered at Grant's questioning look. "You could play it backwards. Just do it."

When Phil walked down from the stage, it was obvious from the moment he laid his eyes on the pianist, that he recognized her. He held the book to his heart and watched her, tears streaming down his face.

Grant watched him and understood what the notes he was supposed to play were about. It was recognition, meeting someone you longed to meet all your life. It was missing someone and then finding them, it was about life long search that led to finding something else entirely, than what you expected.

He played. He knew he could. He had that longing in his heart, not specified, he couldn't tell if what he longed for was a person, or was it music, or maybe it was wiping out some memories, or maybe it was himself, but half of his life, he was missing something. Now, maybe, he was beginning to discover it all over again.

Once his violin teacher had told him that playing music was not about hitting the perfect notes every time. That what actually mattered was playing with emotion. That if you had to cry while playing, this was what you had to do. Make the pain searing, make the joy elating.

He could do that, his teacher had said. That's why he had been considered a prodigy.

He thought about the girl, the one who sat at the piano right now and stared straight at him with a smile that could repair the world. He didn't know her true story but from that little fragment Phil had just read, and it opened his eyes. If she could believe that every experience brought on something good, then so could he. He thought about Jemma's warm hand, about Leo's quiet and Antoine's boisterous laugh. About Melinda's silent strength and the depth of her connection with Phil.

When he glanced at Phil he saw that right now, the writer was glaring at him with something in his eyes that looked like hunger and knowledge and connection.

And he played. He played for Phil, who, for so many years, didn't believe that he could start over. That once on the other side, he'd never returned whole. He played with a question – could you? Did you? Would you show me how?

He played with all the emotions he had never allowed himself to fully express, the fear, the longing, the dependence and sick love for the person who, in reality, never gave him anything. He had loved John Garrett, it was the sad truth he felt ashamed to admit. Early on he had missed his kidnapper so much it hurt, but no one believed him. No one wanted to listen to him say that. They had taught him to hate Garrett and oh, how he hated that bastard now. How he hated his shattered life and all the lost dreams. Sometimes he even hated himself. He played that hate too and only then realized that the rest of his team was silent, he was left alone on a high "g" and he didn't know what to do.

Skye gave him a hand, she gave him an accord and a passage he could use to slowly climb down. Jemma provided a support, in perfect unisono with Leo and Antoine, with Melinda's strong low notes served as the flooring, the foundation he could safely land upon.

He survived. Now he could start to live again.

He couldn't hear the ovation. He was so numb with his wet cheeks and pounding heart and running nose and he was a mess. Then they were all around him and led him out of the ballroom and to the quiet room backstage and they were saying things and he just shook his head. He clasped someone's hand in his and waited until his breath quieted down, until he was able to speak.

"Thank you," he told them all.

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><p>t.b.c.<p>

**A/N:** Just an epilogue left. If like the story... I hope you will tell me. :)


	8. Epilogue

**The Girl from the Bus  
><strong>**Epilogue**

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><p>The music piece accompanying this chapter is <em>Bear McCreary – The Magical Place<em> (youtube com (slash) watch?v=ePqoiNeTdn4 )

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><p>Phil didn't approach him on this day. But it wasn't even a week when he visited Melinda while they were practicing for a new performance. She was requested to play with her "unbelievable, magnificent" string quintet with piano for some celebration and real money.<p>

Melinda told him about Grant, what little she thought Grant wouldn't consider invading his privacy and, well, what little she knew.

"It's not what she told me though," Phil said. "It's what I heard in your performance. I want to write your story. I'll change whatever you feel needs to be left out, but the gist of it. Would you let me write about you?"

_Will it have a good ending?_ Grant wrote. He still couldn't bring himself to speak to strangers and even to his friends he could only utter one word every once in a while.

"Of course it will," Phil smiled broadly. "It already does."

Indeed, his story already had a good ending. Or a good beginning, if you looked at it from that perspective.

He was ready to tell it now.

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><p>.end<p>

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><p><strong>AN:** Thank you for reading. :) Also, thank you very much for all the lovely reviews for the previous chapter. I must admit that comments are what makes all that fanfic writing and posting worthwhile, so having it (finally) appreciated felt very, very good. *hugs you all*

If you've just come to this story, because you waited for it to be completed, and if you enjoyed it, please, do let me know as well. It matters. :)

I know that some of you expected there to be more about Grant's maybe-possibly recovery but this episode of his "life" ended here. It ended with hope and a chance for a better future. :) I think that's good... However, if you'd like to read more about this 'verse, I am writing a small time-stamp now. Hope to be able to post it soon. :)

Thank you again for taking this little journey with me. :)


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